


Full Moon and Empty Arms: An X-Travis-Gan-Za

by executrix



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's when he fell for the Leader of the Pack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Moon and Empty Arms: An X-Travis-Gan-Za

FULL MOON AND EMPTY ARMS  
An X-Travi-Gan-Za  
by Executrix

1.  
Gan flung himself into the thick of the fight, knowing that soon he would have to retreat. If he went in early with all he had, at least he knew he'd make a contribution. If he hung back too long, he might not get his chance at all. It might be because there had been a quickly achieved victory--but perhaps just the contrary.

Gan grabbed Travis' real arm, twisted it up behind the black-leather-clad back, and sank his teeth, quite satisfyingly, into the flesh-and-blood hand, drawing samples of both. He spat out the tang of blood. Better get that away, Gan thought. I really rather enjoyed that.

All too soon, his cresting pleasure was replaced by nascent agony, and he staggered back, clutching his head, his mouth distorted by a terrifying grimace.

2\.   
"Pardon me, chaps," Gan said, walking stiff-legged toward his cabin.

"Gan's been in a lot of pain lately, but he doesn't like to show it," Blake said sympathetically, proud of his comrade's bravery.

Back in his cabin, safe from even sympathetic scrutiny, Gan felt free to yield to the horrible screeching and tearing within him. His mouth stretched, and stretched. His snout yearned to be born. His fangs longed to emerge. Pulsating, his tail broke the skin only to ebb again. Coarse fur sprouted, grew long and silky, but soon vanished beneath Gan's skin.

Eventually, the limiter won out against the wolf in him, and Gan sank down on his bed, drawn and exhausted. A heavy sleep claimed him. Once again, he revisited the worst moment of his life. He was coming home from the market, his pockets jingling cheerfully with credits for the grain he had sold (he used to be a sheep farmer, but it was something of a conflict of interest). And he saw that door to his house dangling from its leather hinges. And he saw the Federation trooper pump silver bullet after silver bullet into Miniehra's fruitful round belly.

As we know, the Federation's scientists have eliminated menstruation, but there's more than one Curse that can subject one to the tidal pull of the moon. And this one is not limited to females--putting the men in menstruation, you might say.

3\.   
For all he fussed and complained and said he couldn't do it, Dr. Kayn somehow managed to remove Gan's limiter. The rest of the crew was--"over the moon" seems tactless, but they were considerably cheered--and they couldn't understand why Gan wasn't even happier than they were.

The crippling headaches and the muscle spasms that bent his back like a bow were gone. But, as he was the only one to know, now there was nothing to keep the wolf in check. Orac's astrogation lessons weren't just difficult, they were a reminder that any time Liberator was in teleport range of a planet, he was in striking range of its lunar rays. As his experience grimly proved, nobody likes a lycanthrope.

4.  
In the empty building that passed itself off as Central Control, the gate, crashing down, was real enough and solid enough. Gan wasn't sure if he had deliberately used his strong, broad body to prop the gate open so the others could get through, or if he had simply been there when it fell.

Just before he blacked out, Gan hoped that it had been a heroic act, not just another blasted bit of bad luck. But in a way, he wasn't sorry to die. He needed to be among others of his kind. He wasn't cut out to be a lone wolf. "Go on, Blake," he said faintly. "I'm not worth dying for."

Blake stumbled away, overcome with sorrow, determined to avenge this first loss of a crew member and true friend.

As Blake left, Travis felt the irresistible pull of his wolf-sire calling to him. He hardly knew how or why, but he raced to Gan. With super-human and even super-lazeron strength he pulled Gan away from the crushing mass of metal and masonry. No human being could have detected the faint spark of life still flickering within Gan, but it would be clear enough to any fellow-wolf, and unmistakeable to the wolf he had created.

Travis dragged Gan out of the ruins, instructed his mutoids to prepare a comfortable bed for him, on no account to feed from him, and to prepare a course at Standard by Eight for someplace very quiet.

For a few weeks, Gan lay unconscious, as the human tried to die and the wolf strove to live. Little by little, assisted by a half-reluctant Travis and a group of faithful larrytal bots, Gan pushed his way back to consciousness.

It's not so bad, Travis thought. When I was all-human, what did it get me? Now I've got someone. So has he. We're not alone.

Gan opened his eyes. "Blake?" he asked.

"Sorry, mate," Travis said, and Gan started to flinch but was puzzled by the kindness in his tone.

"Well, thanks," Gan said, after Travis explained. "I suppose that was a mean sort of trick I played on you, and all I can say is I'm grateful to you for helping me out now. It goes to show you can't be such a bad sort of chap as they say."

5.  
Moonlight flowed like chilled honey in the forest. Quickly, before their paws emerged, they stripped off their clothes, claws scraping the insides of their boots. Travis, out of habit, tried to fold his uniform.

As the change came on them, Travis saw Gan's thick, soft golden fur emerge. All of Gan had a--well, a surprising roundness, a three-dimensional quality that had been absent for a long time. Travis felt his legs crook and bow, as his tail emerged. He dropped down to the ground, his forepaws braced solidly on the leafy forest floor.

His forepaw*s*. Travis looked down with his two eyes at his intact wolf body, and threw back his head to howl with glee. Gan, wondering what the fuss was about, realized what had happened and tried to sling a sympathetic arm around his comrade's shoulder. He overbalanced, and he and Travis landed on the ground, attempting to embrace with far too many limbs that hinged in unfamiliar ways.

Frottage is, so to growl, the gold standard in male-male werewolf sexual expression. Any canid will cheerfully engage in a round of mutual licking and sniffing. However, delightful as the prospect of a long snout might be, and whatever the potential of a long, flexible pink tongue frilled with black, a blow job is right out during those difficult wolfy days each month. In default of hands a hand job is a non-starter. Bit like Titus Andronicus really. Human adolescents need to learn where the noses go when they kiss. Novice werewolves need to develop tail management skills.

As for the possibilities suggested by the term "doggie style," even if a pot of cold cream has fortuitously been left on the forest floor (and can be discerned in the moonlight) then neither the topwolf nor the bottomwolf will be able to unscrew the jar lid, much less take the contents and stick it where the moon don't shine.

For the lupine sweethearts, there were other delights besides lovemaking, in that enchanted wood: intoxicating smells to follow, a tapas bar of small furry creatures, frolicksome rolls through piles of crispy leaves.

6.  
Together, they learned to get in touch with their inner wolf. Gan found a certain simplicity and honesty in the bestial that appealed to him. Travis learned never to kill more than you can eat.

"There's a lot of good in you, Edward," Gan told his lover and potential colleague. "You're loyal, for one thing. You're persistent. You're brave. But then again you've done a lot of things that--well, that really aren't on. If you put the two together, then you--then you and I--can give something back by using what we can do and what we are, to help people who're in trouble."

"I'm no Angel," Travis protested.

It led to a quarrel, and even though Gan said they should never go to sleep angry, Travis stalked out of the bedroom of their humble cabin and paced the living room floor all night. In the morning, he packed the modest collection of items he had accumulated during Gan's convalescence, called for a shuttlecab to the nearest spaceport, but never got any further than a three-day circuit of the spaceport bars.

Oh, stuff Servalan, Travis told himself at last. Let her do her own dirty work. She's buggered up my life worse than Blake has, and at least he thought he had a good reason for what he did. And anyway, it's undone, when I'm in my fur. If I keep hanging about with Servalan, it's a toss-up between being Exhibit One at a show trial and getting a jeweled hairpin between my personalized shoulderblades. Anything's got to be better than that.

So he sent Gan a message:  
Have gun.  
Will.  
Travis.

And soon the flyers for their agency were posted, giving their X-Travi-Gan-t not Exorbitant Rates. No fur, C100 a day per person, plus expenses. Fur: C500 plus expenses per wolf.


End file.
